


You're Free To Go

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon, Soft Kisses, bed sharing, soft cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 15:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: "He remembers in flashes - emotionless Bran, the Night King, ice in his flesh, blood in his mouth - but somehow, this makes little sense. Sansa, lying beside him, hand curled around his. Vaguely, he recognizes the bandages along the side where the spear had pierced him. But it’s Sansa, lying comfortably beside him, in wrinkled clothing and tangled hair, that keeps his concentration."Theon lives; he and Sansa take to sharing a bed at night.





	You're Free To Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariee/gifts).

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARIANE! I'm late but I hope you enjoy this! Also shout out to Margot because she got us started on canon kisses and El for reading this over.

** **

****Theon wakes up with a fire burning in his side where his last memory was ice. Slowly, with eyes barely open, he reaches for the wound to douse it with his fingers, but instead his hand is captured by another’s.

His eyes open wider. And it’s the flash of red that makes him pause.

He remembers in flashes - emotionless Bran, the Night King, ice in his flesh, blood in his mouth - but somehow, this makes little sense. Sansa, lying beside him, hand curled around his. Vaguely, he recognizes the bandages along the side where the spear had pierced him. But it’s Sansa, lying comfortably beside him, in wrinkled clothing and tangled hair, that keeps his concentration.

Part of him knows he should wake her, ask for water, ask for the Maester.

But he’s tired.

So he chooses to just close his eyes instead; he smiles and falls back asleep, their hands still intertwined.

The demons are mostly nocturnal, so Sansa crawls into his bed every night, claiming it helps her sleep too.

Theon only protests once he finds the energy to, wound mostly healed and the armies marching South. He has just drafted a raven to his sister - to arrange funerals for the Ironborn and insist he is alright - when Sansa slips into his room. The sun has hidden for the night and her eyes are sad, but there’s a strength in her shoulders.

“My Lady,” he says with a low nod. Sansa smiles in return. “I was just about to send Yara a note - ”

“Does it bother you?” she interrupts, fingers twisted in her skirts and her eyes darting between his.

Theon frowns. “Does what bother me?”

Her fingers cease for a moment and instead she bites her lip. Theon’s gaze gravitates towards the motion and he swallows to stop himself from physically shaking away the thoughts that follow. Her body is warm beside his these nights, and even when the nightmares haunt him, her soft hands and whispered words are more than he deserves. When she wakes, breathless and sweating, ghosts in her eyes and darkness dancing on her skin, Theon does not hesitate to hold her; he’d rather be the one who struggles than her. So he helps, as much as he can.

But in those moments of closeness and comfort, when all that matters is Sansa in his arms, sometimes he notices the warmth of her skin against his chest and there’s a deep stirring in his chest and the familiar ache much lower.

Theon tightens his jaw.

Sansa sees it and must mistake his sudden stiffness for realization. “I appreciate your company - so much - it’s been such a comfort to have you - ” Her voice wavers and her gnawing on her lip continues. Theon wants to touch her, free her lip from between her teeth… soothe her. Instead, he frowns. “When I - when I lie with you, the nightmares are… bearable. Fewer.”

A dread settles in his gut, but Theon understands. Resignation takes over. “You’re free to go, Lady Sansa. You don’t have to stay with me anymore - ” His cuts off, because the ghost of his fingers want to pulse against his palm. “Yara likely needs me to take back Pyke - ”

“No!” Sansa cuts him off sharply with wide eyes and Theon blinks. Sansa steps towards him. Her hands drop her skirts and they settle around her ankles. “Stay.”

_ Stay_.

Theon frowns deeper. “I - I don’t understand.”

Sansa lifts her head. She looks regal, like a - “Stay,” she repeats, harder and stronger. His heart thumps loudly in his chest. “Please?”

Theon is still confused, doesn’t quite understand _ why _ Sansa looks at him like this, but she has given him a choice.

So he chooses to stay.

The day Sansa receives a raven - from the South, covered in ash and blood, of fire and death - she paces in her room - the same one of her childhood, not the room of her parents and _ him_. The nightmares fade in and out, but Theon’s body beside hers is a reminder.

It’s not the same.

Ramsay Bolton is dead.

And Sansa Stark is still alive.

And now, with this letter clenched in her hand, she must have a decision.

Theon sits on her bed watching her. “You have to go.”

“I know,” she says, finally looking at him long enough to stop her pacing. His hand rests beside him on the sheets and Sansa sighs before sitting beside him. She lifts his hand and holds it against her chest without thought. “The Unsullied have taken Jon prisoner. I must - ”

“Go.”

Sansa squeezes his hand. His thumb draws spirals against her skin. “Brienne will to come with me.” Her hair falls along her face but she doesn’t mind. “Bran must come too.” 

“And I?”

Her eyes meet his. For a moment, Sansa is reminded of the waters in King’s Landing, so calm and peaceful; but there are dead bodies floating along the surface, infested and turmoiled. There are secrets hidden within their depths. Theon’s eyes, however, are open and airy and earnest.

Sansa feels her chest lighten, despite expanding so fiercely, it’s almost as if it embraces them both.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Theon.” The surprise on his face mostly amuses her, but it is also a painful reminder of the depths of his ghosts. With both of her hands holding his against her chest, she leans in closer. “I need you to wait for me to return. And if I don’t - ”

His hand hand sinks into her hair, pushing the messy strands behind her ears and away from her face. If there wasn’t so much on her mind - maybe she would blush, turn red, her heart racing eagerly in her chest. Instead, when Theon looks at her like the sun and the stars, Sansa hopes her eyes match his.

“If that’s what you wish, my Lady.”

Sansa nods. 

That night, she curls into his chest with his arm wrapped loosely around her waist. Her fingers linger along his jaw, playing with his stubble and grazing dangerously close to his lips. But Theon falls asleep with a smile and a sigh of relief and Sansa wraps her fingers around the thin cloth of his undershirt.

Before closing her eyes, Sansa chooses to press her lips against the space just above his heart.

Sansa returns from King’s Landing. Alone. No Brienne or Bran, and just a sad smile and a brave announcement.

_ Queen in the North. _

The memories are not unsettling as Theon watches with a smile as she is crowned. This time, there is a crown on her head, two wolves tangled together.

It reminds him of their hands when they sleep.

During the celebration that follows, Theon steps out of the shadows. Sansa beams, drags him onto the dance floor, and although he is reluctant and clumsy, she leads them through the sequences and the muscle memory is not quite forgotten. 

But neither are the stares and the whispers that crawl up his spine. _ Turncoat. Traitor. Theon Theon Theon - _

_ Reek. _

Sansa lays a hand on his cheek. “Theon,” she says firmly.

Blinking, Theon exhales with his eyes closed. Her thumb is light on his cheek, but heavy in his ribs. “Your Grace - ”

“Sansa,” she says sharply and when Theon opens her eyes, she returns his gaze with a familiar softness. There is no more naivety, and perhaps little innocence too, but the kindness with which Sansa approaches him reminds me too much of his childhood and too much of the elusive feeling of… _ belonging. _

Home.

Later that evening, before they sneak away, Sansa stands before the crowd, red hair free and long and curling at the ends and announces that Theon will stand at her side as her Hand.

Because when she smiles and asks - _ will you be hand of the Queen, Theon Greyjoy, hero of the Godswood _ \- as they step off the dancefloor, her hand still on his arm, he chooses to say yes.

They continue to sleep in the same bed at night in an attempt to ward off the shared nighttime terrors and nightmares. Theon feels more comfortable beside her, even removing his nightshirt. Theon offers to brush her hair, and Sansa eagerly lets him.

On one such night, where Theon gingerly untangles her hair with the comb and his fingers, Sansa stares at their reflection in the mirror.

"You’re free to go,” says Sansa , a whisper barely heard over the breeze against the window. “I - you have no obligation to my family or this castle… you can _ choose, _Theon. You are no longer a prisoner.” 

Silently, Theon continues to brush her hair. She says nothing when he divides her hair into three parts, braiding them together, slowly and deliberately. It does not require as much effort to keep his hands steady, to use fewer fingers than is normal, but the silence is for her benefit.

Theon does not which to misspeak. This moment seems important.

Once her braid is tied, Sansa turns to face him still sitting on her stool. Theon stands before her; it is one of the rare moments when he towers above her and Theon understands it is because Sansa trusts him.

She trusts him with her hair and in her chambers and in her bed.

“I choose you.”

Sansa smiles, walks them to bed, and wraps her arms around him.  
  


And finally, on an ordinary night after meetings and plans and rebuilding, Sansa slips into bed. Theon watches her arrange the pillows and blankets, removing his wolf pin and his clothes, but Sansa ignores him. When she sits up in bed, she reaches for a book and Theon turns around to finish undressing. She keeps an eye on him, only slightly embarrassed to watch his shirt tumble to the floor, leaving her to study his bare back.

They have been sharing a room for several moons now and neither worries for privacy anymore. Sansa always wears a thin gown to bed and Theon never removes his trousers, but Sansa has seen his upper body.

She’s seen his map of scars.

She’s seen his broken and missing fingers, his broken posture, his flayed skin. And despite his hesitance, the fear and the worry that she may _ run _, Sansa can only smile.

It is not only a map of the past, of the pain and the hardship, but it is a reflection of his soul.

His strength.

Sansa smiles when he slips into bed beside her, propping his head up on an elbow. His bare chest is barely visible by the flame of her candle, but every ridge and valley feels like another road for her to travel with her eyes. The winter nights might be cool, but in this bed with Theon, Sansa never wants for heat.

Sansa places her book back on the table beside her and blows out the candle too. Sliding down, she mirrors Theon; they lie in bed facing each other, her hair curled up on the pillow behind her and mere inches between them.

Sansa scoots closer. Theon’s hand falls to her shoulder, sliding down her arm before returning. Up and down, he rubs her arm; his eyes never leave hers.

Every inch of her begs for him to move closer, to clear the distance between them. Her heart begs… for her to join her lips with his. Begging him to lean into her and do it himself.

But Sansa understands - if her heart is true, then she understands Theon too, and she knows she needs to slide closer, place her hand on his cheek, and leave a gentle kiss on his lips.

So she does.

Just like the rest of him, Theon’s lips are warm. It almost feels like kissing the sun, impossible to recover from as he burns her from the inside out. Sighing in relief, and possible in fear, Theon rests her forehead against hers. Sansa watches him as he internally struggles, like he’s debating whether this is a dream, whether it’s his imagination and that Sansa might just be teasing him. Taunting him.

Haunting him.

The moment the movement behind his eyelids crosses into the shadows Sansa tilts his head back up. “Sansa - ”

Sansa knows her heart. Sansa knows _ Theon _. So she lets her actions speak what words cannot - and she kisses him again. Harder, pouring those words into her lips, letting him capture them with his own. Letting his tongue press into hers, letting him converse back with the same passion that threatens to pull her apart and put her back together again, only this time with her heart intertwined with his.

When her lungs burn more than her heart, Sansa kisses his shoulder. Theon kisses her temple, her neck, her cheek, before kissing her lips once more. 

“Theon,” she says into his kisses and he smiles. “I - ” Sansa isn’t quite sure what she wants to say, what she _ needs _ to say, only that she hopes he has no doubts that her heart is his.

She’s chosen him.

“I know,” he says. And she believes him.


End file.
